


Dancing Shoes

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-21
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	1. Chapter 1

_It's so nice to see you.  
Can we sit and talk for a while?  
I have searched forever,  
I can't imagine anything better._

Patrick was staring at Pete from across the room and trying hard not to hurl something at that bastard's head. But that would be bad. Very, very bad because he might go to jail, and he realised he was far too short to be someone's bitch. As it was, Patrick settled on sending waves of hate in Pete's direction. He hoped Pete would feel them and probably choke on that slice of pizza or something. Or maybe get pushed through a window. Or it would be nice if he was choking while falling through a window. That sounded like fun.

Pete could feel Patrick glaring at him. Great. A fucking welcome-home party, and some idiot invited his ex. The ex whom he had broken up with quite badly two years ago. The ex who had an incredible pitching arm and had thrown numerous objects with pointy edges when Pete had informed him that he was moving on. The ex who was currently trying to burn him to to a crisp with his eyes. Pete had forgotten that Patrick was good at giving the Glare.

Hold up.

Apparently, he had also forgotten how smooth Patrick's skin was. And Patrick looked pretty hot with his hair at that length. And with that grey t-shirt on. And in those jeans..oh yeah, he recalled those jeans. You know, the sorta tight ones that cupped his ass.

William sidled up to Patrick and bent to murmur in his ear.

"You alright?"

Patrick turned and focused on his slender friend.

"What the fuck did you invite me here for? Pete is here. Did I _not_ tell you ages ago that wherever Pete is, I wanna be, like, four hundred miles _south_ , or something?"

"Get over it, Rickster. I didn't remember this was a party for him. I just dragged you along for the fun." Will pressed a cool glass into his hands. "So. Have fun!"

"I'm going to murder you," Patrick muttered at Will's retreating back. Right after he murdered Peter. Oh, that would be a very good day. He jumped at the voice that spoke suddenly at his elbow.

"Hey. Patrick."

He gritted his teeth in wrath, then fixed on a hideous grin and spun slowly to face Pete, who stood there with one hand on his hip and the other brushing the strands of hair across his forehead. Pete was wearing that black hoodie that he always hated. And those dark-blue jeans that Patrick used to swear he'd had sprayed on. His hair was a little longer than usual, and it fell into his brown eyes. Sloppy.

"Hey. Pete."

Patrick was giving him the Fake Smile and Pete frowned a little. Too much teeth....Patrick was feeling pissy. Ok. Time to pull out some stops.

"So. How have you been?"

"Oh yeah, fine. Just, you know, great. Fabulous."

Too much teeth and too many descriptive phrases.

"And school?"

"Like butter, really."

Pete smiled a little at that phrase they used to use and watched Patrick's own manic grin normalise just a bit. Cool. Keep talking to him. Make soothing noises.

"Patrick. I...I just wanted to tell you. I'm sorry."

Ok, so that was like a bad move, right there. Patrick's grin had melted into a grimace and then he scowled.

"Two years and you feel sorry _now_? What an asshole you are, Pete, really." Patrick turned away and Pete grabbed onto his arm. "Look, let me the fuck go."

"I dont know what to say to you without you causing a scene," Pete hissed and Patrick decided if they were going to hiss at each other, then he would do it better.

"If you don't let go my arm, I will break off every finger of yours."

"This is why we broke up. You are too fucking violent."

"No, the reason why we broke up is because _you_ thought you were too good for _me_. So. Let. Go."

Patrick snatched his arm away, and stalked off into the kitchen, followed closely by Pete, and watched by the whole gathering.

"Oh man," William muttered to Joe. "This is going to be so good."

Pete burst into the kitchen, and saw Patrick taking a seat at the breakfast table. Patrick gave him looks designated to destroy tankers, but Pete had been through worse. He took a seat across from him.

"Just let me apologise, man...you're right. I was selfish and stupid. I didn't know that I had a good thing."

Patrick rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. You did what you wanted. Let's leave it there."

Pete smiled at him gently.

"Well. It's really nice to see you, dude.You look good."

Patrick curled one side of his lip up, sneering lightly.

"Not too fat? I remember you telling me once that you wished I would take the President's Fitness Challenge."

Pete looked away. How could he tell Patrick that this was a new Peter before him? Someone who had been through far too much to go back to thinking in that shallow, immature way.

"No," Pete replied quietly, his gaze sliding back and locking with Patrick's. "Not too fat. You look perfect."

Patrick was shocked. No, wait, take out _shocked_ and put in _blown away_.  
Patrick was blown away.  
Ok, yeah, that one fit better.

Patrick gaped at Pete as he looked down at the table-cloth, rubbing the plastic cover.

"Who are you....and what have you done with Peter Wentz?"

Pete laughed a little at Patrick's deadpan remark.

"New and Improved, man. No more running around trying to impress. Just me. Just Pete."

Patrick stared at him in an unreadable manner and then bit his bottom lip.

"Well, Just-Pete. Very nice to see you, too. So yeah, let me finish my drink, walk out that door, and how about we don't speak ever again?"

Pete was looking at him without blinking and Patrick scowled some more.

"I actually would prefer if we could be friends. You know. Just....just sit and shoot the breeze now and again," Pete said hopefully.

Patrick opened his mouth to reply that fuck the breeze, he would rather shoot Pete, and then closed it. He sighed. He was more than a little confused, because this certainly wasn't the Pete that left him, that usually derisive and uncaring jackass. This person was still cocky and confident, but with a smoother edge. Evidently Pete had found the Wizard of Oz and gotten a heart.

"I don't know about that," he hedged, but Pete saw something in his face that spoke otherwise, and Pete's own countenance brightened.

"Well, I do. I really want us to hang out. That would be cool, right?"

"I suppose so," Patrick admitted grudgingly, and he could have kicked himself, because he knew that behind the hate and bitterness, he had never really been over Pete. At all. This was a bad sign.

There was a large thump from the door and Pete turned to see William, Joe and about half the party collapse into the kitchen. Everyone picked themselves up, brushed themselves off and declared loudly how they were here "for the ice". Peter grinned at them all and Patrick continued to frown.

"So...it's ok if I call you?" he murmured to Patrick as everyone continued to bustle around them. Patrick looked down into his drink and watch the ice melt as fast as his resolution he had made to move on without Pete.

"Yeah....yeah. You can call me. But as friends. That's it, Pete."

William was trying so hard not grin in triumph as he "helped" Joe carry two bottles of soda back to the living room.

"I told you this was going to be good," he whispered to Joe as they went out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

_Kids upon the stairway  
Couples on the sidewalk squares.  
If I get to your heart soon,  
I'll call a perfect afternoon_

Patrick watched in amused envy as the children screeched up and down past him on the wide park steps, tumbling over each other on the lush grass. He hadn't laughed like that in ages. More specifically, he hadn't laughed like that in two fucking years, and he was tired of not smiling. It was exhausting to be so unhappy all the time. He needed to get back to who he naturally was.

Maybe he really _did_ need that damned date. Andy had been trying to set him up with someone for two weeks now, and he'd finally given out a grudgeful assent right before he had seen Pete at The Party (he thought about it that way, like it was a major event, such as the Paleocene Epoch, or Watergate), and now he was figuring that it was the perfect way to try move his brain out of Pete-mode.

"Hello, Patrick."

Well. Evidently his brain was fucking _stuck_ in Pete-mode, for he could have sworn that was Pete's voice coming from the steps above him. He turned and looked up, the warm late-afternoon sun filtering dusty beams of light into his eyes, and Pete's slim frame stood there, surrounded by a halo of illumination.  
He looked like an angel.

Patrick scoffed to himself. Angel? What a _riot_.

"Hello. What are you doing here?" he said softly, trying to not sound too bitter as Pete sat beside him on the steps. After all, they were friends now, right? _Right_.

"Just. Taking a break. From school."

Patrick looked at him in amazement.

"You're back in school? That's great, that's really good, man," and here Patrick confused himself even more, because how can you feel so proud of someone when you're not supposed to be really into them at _all_?

Pete gave him a sidelong look.

"It is. I'm doing medicine. I want to specialise in paediatrics."

(Ok. So how many times can a Wentz shock a Stump speechless?

Trick question, a Wentz _always_ has a Stump in shock, stop asking all these things.)

Patrick opened and closed his mouth several times, looking like the world's biggest goldfish, and Pete laughed gently.

"What? Its the truth. I really want to be a doctor." He looked at the children rushing back and forth on the soft lawn. "Hey. This is where we had our first date. Remember?"

Patrick was still fixed on the _doctor-thing_ , and could only nod his head. Pete rested back, his elbows on the step behind him and squinted. "You had a vanilla ice-cream. I had some rum-and-raisin shit, and you told me that I didn't need all that alcohol in my system because I was dumb enough already."

"Good memory," Patrick finally managed to let out, and Pete gave him that sidelong look again; Patrick tugged at his hat, feeling like he was being pierced by those brown eyes.

"I remember nearly everything."

"Do you remember the fights, Pete?" Patrick responded, half-jokingly and half-warningly; now he couldn't really sit still under Pete's gaze, and he would really prefer it if Pete would just stop that, please.

"Of course. Those I remember the best. Because I was the worst at that time."

Patrick rolled his eyes and then asked the question that he was burning let out since The Party.  
"Pete, what's happened to you? Why all the nice-act now?" His tone was desperate, because he was actually hoping it _was_ all an act and sooner or later Pete would slip up and he didn't have to _feel_ so hopeful. He had a date this evening, for crying out loud.

Pete laughed again, and Patrick marveled at it. Before, it had been loud and hard on the ears, but now...now it was the exact same laugh but so restrained. So polite. So beautiful. What the fuck.

"An act? No...no act. I ended up in the Peace Corps, Patrick. Almost by accident....I saw a lot of stuff. A lot of people being disgusting to each other. A lot of kids being hurt. I decided that it was time to be...better, I guess."

What? Just....what??!! Patrick's brain was stuck in the same track and he jumped as Pete touched his arm gently.

"I guess I was trying to be better for you."

Patrick finally worked up the strength to snort a little, and he rose to his feet so quickly that his head spun.

"That's nice, Pete, really. But we're just friends now, remember, and I gotta go and get ready to go out cause Andy set up this blind-date and you know how long I take to pick out what I need to wear-"

"It's cool," Pete interrupted his rambling with a smile, and getting up himself. "Where is your date gonna be? Do you know?"

"At Rhiannon's. On Fourth," Patrick responded immediately (jeez, it was like a fucking _reflex_ ), and Pete smiled even more widely. A smile that looked suspiciously like the one Patrick knew as the Plotting Grin.

"Sounds good. Have fun, ok?"

He walked quickly down the steps and ambled off, dodging the children with slim-hipped ease. Patrick watched him leave, eyeing his ass.

A doctor.

What??!!


	3. Chapter 3

_Won't you call my number.  
Don't push, but don't hesitate.  
Wake me from this slumber.  
Rush me, but leave time to wait._

 __Patrick was waiting.

He hated waiting on people. Pete used to make him wait all the time, and no matter how they would scream over it, they would just end up arriving late at every gathering. Sometimes Patrick would try save himself the trouble and tell Pete an earlier time just so that they could leave the apartment and arrive at a halfway decent hour; Pete would find out and get wrathful at Patrick for "wasting his time", and Patrick would get wrathful because there was no _way_ Pete was going to walk around thinking that he ruled. Thinking back on it, it was a wonder they lasted so long. Two years of that? From he was eighteen? Wow...what had it been that kept them together?

Ok, yeah, so the sex had been awesome.

Like that first date, the ice-cream one. Even though he had witheringly informed Pete that he was a Grade-A dumbass, and Pete had told him to take the stick out _his_ ass, they were all over each other before the evening had been out. It had been like they couldn't help it. They had been acquaintances before, friends-of-friends, and Patrick had always secretly thought that Pete was pretty hot, so he was fairly shocked (and pleased) to find Pete pushing him against the front door of his apartment, and doing what people might term as _ravishing_.

He had been ravished by Pete and he really had not minded at all.

In fact, by the next date, _he_ had been the one doing the ravishing, and he hadn't heard Pete complain, so that had been pretty sweet.

Patrick nodded at the waiter and watched as his glass was refilled. This Sonny dude was half an hour late and Patrick was getting a little worked-up. His cellphone buzzed in his back-pocket and he lifted his hips a little off the chair to get it, answering quickly.

"Is this Patrick?"

"Yeah?" Patrick didn't know the voice at all...so that had to be the infamous Sonny.

"It's Sonny. Ok, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to take a rain-check on this one."

"I'm _already_ at the restaurant," Patrick grounded out, and when Sonny said, "Really?" Patrick told him never mind and hung up the phone.

He felt someone hovering near his arm.

"I won't be having dinner, so you can take back the menu," he said without looking, and then felt bemused as Pete sat down across from him.

"Dressed like that and not having dinner?" Pete asked, giving Patrick a slow once-over as he picked up a menu. "Why not? Where's your date?"

Patrick was pretty sure his cheeks could be seen by the Hubble. The look in Pete's eye was too intense. He had never _looked_ at Patrick like that before; heated yes, but not all... _sensual_. Pete was dressed in that distinct white button-front shirt that all medical students seem to wear, open over this outrageously bright yellow t-shirt. Patrick looked closely at his i.d., which was clipped to the lapel. Unbelievable...the dude really _was_ studying medicine.

"He couldn't make it," Patrick responded darkly, and Pete raised his eyebrows.

"You were here waiting for half-an-hour...I know, I was at the bar. You hate waiting on people, Patrick."

"I also hate stalkers," Patrick snapped, and Pete simply chuckled.

"I wonder why he ducked out on you," Pete said, leaning forward and grinning the patented Plotting Grin. "Maybe...maybe he heard something?"

"Pete. What did you do." It wasn't even a question. Patrick knew from first-hand that Pete had incredible powers of persuasion. Pete smiled comfortingly.

"Let's just say I convinced Andy to convince _him_ that I _really_ wanted to have dinner with you. And besides," he continued, leaning back and inspecting the food-list, "he wasn't your type. Let's eat?"

 _Get up and get the fuck out of here_ , one part of him growled in his head, the part that was still bitter and upset; the part that had launched anything it could find at Pete when he had been told that it was time they moved on, because they had been nowhere _near_ any moving-on shit and how _dare_ he walk back into his life like this and start up again and be just fucking _wholesome_ and sweet and still-hot and-

"Patrick." Pete interrupted his inner-monologue gently and Patrick blinked at him. "Just...it's dinner. Just have dinner with me. Please."

"Fine," Patrick replied, and the Bitter Part of him was amazed. _Good move, kid. Get hurt again, why don't you._

*

Pete tried hard not to push it. But he couldn't help himself. He only managed to hold out until nearly the end of the main course.

"Patrick," he blurted out, "I want us back together again."

Patrick choked on his linguini. Eyes watering and face red, he glared at Pete as he drank some water. _One day_ , Pete thought, _I'm going to have to tell him that his glare turns me on much more than it turns me off._

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Patrick coughed out, and then sipped some more. Really. Was Pete trying to kill him?

"No. For the very first time in like, I dunno, my whole _life_ , I'm finally thinking straight."

"I don't think so," Patrick murmured, and then looked at Pete with a closed expression. "No, Pete. I don't want to go back there."

Apparently Patrick completely forgot just how _set_ Pete could be when he wanted something. And Pete wanted Patrick again. Pete wanted him. Plain and simple. But it wasn't just that sort of physical attraction that had shook him to his bones when they were first together. That was it too, but from when they had spoken at the Party (yeah, he thought about it that way as well), he had been just overtaken by all things Patrick. He just...wanted to be part of his moments again. That might be too much to ask, though...he had been _such_ the asshole.

"We wouldn't be going back. Not to _that_. That's ancient history."

"Not to me. You don't understand. You _destroyed_ me, Pete. There is really no _way_ I'm going to go through that again."

"I'm not going to give this up. I want to make it up to you. You're not going to get rid of me so easily," Pete warned and Patrick laughed scornfully.

"Won't I? I got over you a long time ago." ( _Liar, liar, hearts on fire._ )

"Well, then," Pete advised silkily, "I guess I'll just have to get you back _under_ me."

 _Fuck,_ Patrick thought. Oh just, _fuck_.


	4. Chapter 4

_Checkmate on my shoulder.  
I'm tired of this win or lose.  
Well, I'm no knight in shining armor,  
But I'm no pair of dancin' shoes.  
I'm no pair of dancin' shoes._

Bombardment.

That was what Pete was doing and Patrick was not having any of it, not at _all_. He was getting _flowers_ , for crying out loud; Patrick, who had never gotten flowers before in his whole entire life, not even on Valentine's Day, had received a small bouquet every day for the past week, starting right after the dinner at which Pete tried to murder him by shock. To his disgust, his classmates, at least the girls, went positively swoony when they saw the small bundle on his desk each morning. Some guys would whistle and some murmer in disapproval, and Patrick would refrain from breaking his drafting pens in half and stabbing each and every one of them in the nads. As it was, he contented himself with carefully separating each bouquet and the girls would take one. Damn their giggling.

But oh. It got worse. There was always a small card attached. No name, no fancy note; just the meaning of the flowers each time.

Red Camellia: _you're a flame in my heart_. Red Carnation: _my heart aches for you_. Daffodil: _regard, rebirth, new beginnings_.

It was enough to make Patrick hurl.

And when he told Andy to tell Pete to back the fuck off, Andy sent him this response: "Pete says to deal with it, Patrick."

Patrick dealt. He tore up half his drafting assignment, and nearly crushed a half-finished building model in a fit of resentful pique, because one small part of him was utterly charmed, and close to _dealing with it_ in a very submitting and pleasurable way, but most of him, stubborn and grudgeful, was still caught up in the striking brown of Pete's eyes as he had stalked away from him so many months ago; Patrick, once referred to as a bitch by Will, was the sort of person who liked to prove such names correct. Also, he did not quite know how to forgive. Not really.

He was wholeheartedly grateful that while, technically, he and Pete attended the same university, Pete's department was on a different campus entirely, and so the Bombardment could only take on such a small form. And when the week was finally over, no more flowers, there is a god, he tore his way over to Andy's apartment to demand an explanation, shoved open the door at Andy's low _come in_ , and almost on instinct looked for things to throw at Pete's head when he spotted him sitting on the sofa with his hand on Andy's chest.

Andy's bare chest.

"Hey," Pete said mildly, removing the stethoscope, and motioning for Andy to give him the thermometer stuck under his tongue. Andy spat it out, and Pete shot it a critical look before giving a small huff of laughter.

"Andy. You have, like, the slightest fever ever. So you have to go to work tomorrow, anyway."

Patrick was _not_ finding the stethoscope sexy. No way. Andy gave Pete a glare.

"What's the point," he grumbled, pulling on his t-shirt, "of having a second-year medical student for a friend if they can't get you out of working on a Saturday?"

"Andy-" Patrick started, and then looked at the both of them. "Wait. Pete, you're a _second_ year student?"

Pete shrugged, placing the stethoscope and the thermometer in a small neat case. "I did my first year at La Universidad Iberoamericana."

Patrick said, "Where?" but he really meant _what the fuck_?

Andy helped: "Santo Domingo, Patrick. You know. The Dominican Republic."

Patrick said, "Oh, okay," but he was really thinking, _what the fuck_ , and Andy was gleefully informing him that Pete had to do that year in Spanish, and that was when he grasped Andy by the arm and hauled him off to the kitchen to hiss in his face.

"I will _kill_ you. Why the _hell_ did you allow him to have dinner with me?"

Andy pushed him off and straightened his t-shirt, crossing his arms. He fixed Patrick with his world-class withering look, and Patrick pursed his lips abashedly. Andy usually made him feel like a wayward four-year-old with that expression.

"Stop threatening me. I thought you said you were getting your temper under control and I did it because he asked me nicely," Andy said, ignoring Patrick's amazed sputtering,"AND, I don't know if you remember how Pete was? But he never asked, much less nicely. So that alone is worth something."

"It isn't," Patrick said sulkily, but it was true. It was worth a lot. Pete had been the type to take, take, take and here he was, actually getting Andy into his corner by sheer charm. And Andy in one's corner was a very significant issue indeed. Patrick sulked even more, sitting at the tiny kitchen table, which was piled with Andy's books.

"Would it be so bad to give him another chance? I'm thinking you might want to," Andy mused, opening the fridge and taking out some tofu as Patrick made a face. "I saw your wild-eyed look when you came in. What were you going to throw?"

Patrick grimaced even more, just now remembering how much Andy knew him.

"Your blue vase on the side-table."

"Bitch," Andy said affectionately. "My mother gave me that."

*

Patrick escaped Andy's Tofu of Doom, and asked Pete to walk him back home. Looking back at everything later, he would resign himself to the thought that maybe he should have stayed at Andy's and suffered the cooking.

*

"Water?" Patrick asked in his best chilling voice, and tried to ignore the sly smirk on Pete's face as he took in the messy box Patrick called an apartment. There was only so much a person could do on a student allowance. Pete inspected the drafting table perched near the bathroom door, nodding at Patrick's clean design-lines.

"Sure, water," Pete said, flipping the papers to reveal a rushed sketch Patrick had done of some obscure building detail that had caught his eye. "Also, can I have a side of Patrick?"

Patrick slammed down the glass on the counter before his trembling hand could be noticed.

"Pete. I'm going to ask you to stop. Ok? Just fucking _stop_."

Pete didn't say anything, and his silence accompanied with the faint rustle of sketch tissue only served to fuel Patrick's ire. He stormed over to Pete and shoved him to one side, trying to organize his impossible stack of final assignments.

"I mean," he fumed, capping pens and straightening his scale rules, "Can't you consider how I feel?"

Pete rummaged into a desk drawer before Patrick could stop him and came up with a photograph. How he knew it had been in there was a mystery to Patrick, but there it was, evidence of them happy together, shooting the breeze at one of Joe's innumerable parties, Pete threatening Patrick with a bit of ice. Pete looked at it for a moment and then tossed it onto the still-messy work-surface.

He said softly: "Can't you consider me?"

"People don't change." Patrick adopted a firm lecturing tone. "I bet underneath all this nice shit, you're still the same old Pete."

"Fuck you," Pete spat, and Patrick felt right in his element, because _here_ was the Pete he knew very well, he of the mercurial temperament. "You know me, you bastard, and you know what? You _don't_ know me. And people _do_ change. Case in point? _You_."

"What?" Patrick sputtered, and would have done so some more, but Pete made a sharp cutting movement with one hand; Patrick sealed his lips together and glared.

"Yeah, you. You used to be this great witty person, who could hold his own against me. Now, it's like," Pete waggled his fingers all over where Patrick thought his aura could be, if he believed in that shit, "Like the world's most concentrated form of bitter."

"You're one to talk. Whose fault is that?" Patrick was this close to shouting, and Pete actually had the gall to roll his eyes.

"Mine, mine, you want to hear me say it? My fault. But guess what. You didn't have to _stay_ bitter. You could have found somebody to be happy with again. But you chose, Patrick, don't shake your head at me, you _chose_ to stay this way. So, if _you_ can change into a piece of shit, then give me some credit."

"Get the fuck out," Patrick hissed, almost in Pete's eye.

"Make me," Pete snapped, and kissed him.

 _Oh, god, yes_ , went the part of him that knew every inch of Pete's body very well, that knew how good it felt to have Pete's mouth pressed against his, and Pete's hands pulling at his shirt, searching at the skin underneath. Right, yes, all good, and they were on the floor, Pete firmly entrenched between his thighs, pulling away only so far and for only so long to strip off his shirt. Patrick's hands were splayed on Pete's back, fingers pressing into the smooth expanse of muscle, reveling in the hurried ripples as Pete ran his hands up Patrick's arms and squeezed his shoulders, grinding mercilessly into him and making Patrick moan probably a little too loudly.

 _Stop this!_ screeched that part of him that thought it didn't want this, and Patrick wrenched his face to one side, shuddering as Pete found that part under his ear that had always been hypersensitive to Pete only, no one else.

"This is how it always was between us, anyway," he grunted out nonsensically, his body arching without his expressed written consent under Pete. "Just a good fuck."

Pete froze.

Patrick could actually feel the air cool between them as Pete pulled back from him, staring down. A chorus of expressions flitted across his face, starting out with shock, and ending up with sheer hurt before Pete's eyes became brown shutters, and then his gaze flickered away, finding his own shirt. He removed himself from Patrick, standing and putting on the clothing in one smooth movement, and then spoke as if he was talking to himself.

"Patrick," he said, his voice tight. "Even from before, it wasn't about the sex to me. It was all you, and I was scared of loving you and I ran. Happy now?"

Patrick, who had been struggling to get up, went still at the word _loving_ , staring up at Pete, who abruptly turned and strode to the door.

"I'll stop," he said clearly, and then walked out, slamming the door. Patrick lay on the cool floor, shirtless, and closed his eyes.

*

"You should have stayed for the tofu," Andy commiserated softly, and Patrick rubbed at his eyes, sitting straight up in bed. He had design-work to hand in to his lecturers this week, architects themselves who delighted in critiquing their students' works to pieces; but he didn't care. He felt like lying in bed and crying, but dude. That was so not his style.

"You should cry a little," Andy said, and Patrick bit his tongue. Sometimes he hated having someone know him so well.

"And then what?"

"And then decide what you want. Before, you know, it gets too late."

 _Too late_ , Patrick thought, hanging up the phone. _It probably already is_.


	5. Chapter 5

_My patience ran away.  
Take me with you.  
You keep me holding on.  
Nothin's understood  
You're so confusing  
Tell it to me straight_

Patrick knocked on Pete's apartment door and it opened to reveal Pete looking highly doctorly in an operating gown and mask pulled down around his neck. He tried to lean forward and kiss Pete, but managed to smack air as Pete stepped back quickly. Pete motioned towards his living room where there seemed to be major surgery going on: a small child, looking remarkably like a young Patrick, lay under harsh lights on a massive operating table, hooked up to machinery and an IV tube. There were nurses milling about, but Pete glared at Patrick, a bloody scalpel in his hand as the machines beeped in high warning tones.

"You gotta wake up," Pete said icily. "And decide what you want."

Patrick snapped awake and groaned into his pillow.

*

Patrick poked half-heartedly at the mushroom-and-bean chili that Andy placed in front of him. He made a wry face as he placed the fork in his mouth; this expression melted away into a look of delighted surprise, and he shoveled up another mouthful.

"Okay," Patrick said through a mouthful. "Okay, you were right. Your cooking _has_ gotten better."

Andy rolled his eyes and placed a glass of juice in front of his friend, sitting in front of his own plate.

He pointed his fork at Patrick. "Thats probably your biggest fucking flaw. You never give anything a second chance."

Patrick frowned, and pushed a few mushroom slices around. He pulled at his hair, a sharp nervous movement, and Andy waited patiently.

"He won't return any of my calls," Patrick stated. "It just goes to the answering-machine, and I hate answering-machines. I left one message, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't understand a word I said."

Andy remained quiet, sipping at his juice.

"Maybe I should give up," Patrick continued. "It's been like, what? Two weeks? Maybe I-"

Andy cut in, spearing a large mushroom right out of Patrick's plate.

"He waited two years for you. Two weeks won't kill you."

"-and I'm sure it's getting _really_ annoying now....wait. What did you say?" Patrick demanded, his eyes flashing as Andy chuckled.

"Where did you think all the pedo jokes came from, Rick? When you were sixteen and he first met you at...was it some party? It's always some fucking party with us and anyway, he was pretty much into you, man. He got all sorts of grief from us with this crazy crush. And the moment you got to eighteen, it was like white on rice, all over your little-"

"Stop," Patrick said firmly. "I get it. I was there, I think I would remember."

They both fell into silence, Patrick carefully disregarding Andy's amused twinkling eyes. He finished his food, burped loudly to Andy's bemusement, and then got up.

"That was good. I'm glad you didn't poison me, but I got somewhere to go."

Andy waited until he was almost at the door to yell, "Who says you're not poisoned, Stump?"

*

Patrick waited four seconds after the second ring of the apartment doorbell before he started to pound on the door. It swung open violently and Pete blinked at him with owlish eyes, dressed in baggy pajama pants and those sleeveless undershirts that Joe gleefully referred to as 'wife-beaters' (to which Andy had informed Joe that this was one of the reasons he would never have a wife). Pete stared at him, ran a hand through his shock of black hair.

"I have finals, Patrick," Pete said in a gravelly voice, his eyes fixed on Patrick's hat. "So if this-"

"This won't take long," Patrick cut in, sticking his hands in his the back pockets of his jeans. "I don't even have to come in."

Pete simply stared at him for a few long seconds, and then sighed, stepping out and closing the door. He leaned back on it and folded his hands, turning his head to gaze at the side.

"Talk," he said, shifting his weight to one leg and pressing the flat of the other bare foot against the wood of the door. Patrick looked down at his toes, noting that the second one was slightly longer than the big toe, and it was these he addressed softly.

"Andy told me, when you first came back, that forgiveness is not for the perfect. You were right, you know. People do change, and I didn't want to give you any benefit of the doubt. I'm really sorry about that."

Pete cleared his throat, and Patrick watched his toes clench gently against the floor, but he didn't look up in Pete's face.

"I'm not perfect either. So that means I'm allowed to be forgiven, right?" He gave a low, desperate laugh, and then pulled one of his hands out of his pockets, holding out a small crumpled envelope, which Pete took out of surprise more than anything else. "That's an invitation to my final presentation. I'd like you to be there. Really. If not..." he finally risked a glance at Pete, who was staring at the envelope. "Pete. I wish we could start over, somehow, you know? Maybe find out more about the new you."

Pete's dark gaze flicked up and his lips pursed tightly together. Patrick blinked at the reproach in his eyes; he closed his eyes momentarily and then stepped away, turning around to walk off down the bright corridor. He heard Pete's door softly close as he went down the stairs, and he repressed the urge to run.

*

Patrick's architectural lecturers were talking urgently to him, giving terse congratulations on the proposals that he had made for his presentation. A few representatives from some firms had left their cards and he tried to concentrate on what they were saying, smiling blandly, but he was trying to spot Pete's head in the crowd of university students that milled about in the now wide-opened studios. As a final-year student, he was required to stand in front of his display after the presentations were all done, and talk about his projects to anyone who asked, and he held on to the edges of his fraying patience with a zeal that Andy would have admired.

He gave up looking for Pete when he was packing up his presentation-boards with Andy's help, while Joe and Will were crowing over him.

"That was pretty much fucking fantastic," Joe said, gesticulating at the sketches and models that Patrick was carefully stacking in sturdy boxes. "Hurry the fuck up, we gotta go home before those sluts eat all the chips."

Patrick grinned faintly, tugging at his black button-down shirt.

"You used my presentation as a reason to throw another party," he laughed snidely, wondering if it sounded was as bad as he felt.

Will looked confused.

"We needed a reason for a party?"

*

Andy was trying to convince him to meet somebody and Patrick was doing his best impression of a spy, brooding and hiding out on Joe's balcony with some unknown warm drink in his hand. The day was beginning to light, transforming the grey dawn into a sharp, sweet Saturday, and he was trying to pour the anonymous drink into a potted ficus in the corner; Andy pushed open the sliding door.

"Shit, you are hard to find. Seriously, you're like the worst guest of honour made. Hey...hey. I have someone for you to meet."

Patrick was just about to say something about being on the Love Connection when Andy turned and yanked Pete bodily out onto the patio. Andy slammed the door, causing the glass to shiver disastrously in the metal frame, locking in the low music and Joe's indignant warbling about his sliding door.

Pete gave a small smile, cautious with a faint expectant edge.

"Hello. I'm Pete."

Patrick stared at his outstretched hand, feeling his pulse crash in his ears. He took it slowly, Pete's palm cool and dry against his, and gave it a tentative shake. Pete held on and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Oh. Hi...I'm Patrick."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick. I saw your final presentation today. The part about the play-area with the transparent roof in the children's ward, that I liked. A lot."

Pete still held onto his hand, and Patrick saw no reason to let go.

"Thanks...you have this funny accent. Are you from around here?"

Pete laughed, open and long and his fingers squeezed against Patrick's hand, thumb sliding across knuckles. Patrick smiled and for the first time in a long while, the smile felt okay on his face. Better than okay.

"Um, yeah. I just spent a couple years in the Dominican Republic, and I had to talk Spanish all the time, so that might be it. It was nice...weird enough, though, I tend to forget some of my English." Pete narrowed his eyes, and bit his lip. "Like yesterday, for some reason, I forgot how to say _you're forgiven_."

Patrick nodded, and removed his hand gently. Pete was standing close, his cologne familiar and shockingly new at the same time; it was possibly the best beginning of _anything_ Patrick could ever ask for. Patrick let out a slow breath and grinned.

"Living there sounds pretty sweet. Want to tell me more?"

Pete didn't smile, but his eyes held roughly four million hopeful promises, and Patrick ignored the twitches of the blinds behind the glass, Will's and Joe's and Andy's eyes peeking through the interstices, probably only seeing their silhouettes in the light of the rising sun.

 _Epilogue_

 _I got nothing left to lose  
I'm no pair of dancing shoes_

Patrick dumped the rolls of blueprints on the lounge and pressed his fingers against his eyelids. The lead architect and the project engineer had had a screaming match and had turned to him to take sides. He had had agreed with the engineer about the structural necessities, and the architect had been pissed.

He opened the fridge and grimaced at the near-empty shelves; Pete had forgotten that it was his turn to do the groceries. _Again_. He felt his temper begin to ratchet up, and he counted to ten slowly, trying to work out how big a deal this was in the whole scheme of things.

It really wasn't.

He took up the small notepad on the kitchen counter and started to make a list, kneeling at the lower cupboards to check if he needed other supplies. He heard the door open slowly and pushed up his glasses as he peered over the counter.

"Hola, chiquillo," Pete greeted wearily, pulling off the jacket he wore to the hospital on his morning-shift. He made a move to drop it on the nearest chair, and Patrick actually could _see_ him dragging up the memory of that fight they had last week about him throwing his clothes all over the place. Pete turned and hung it in the hallway closet.

"Oh shit," he murmured, now coming into the kitchen and seeing Patrick with his list. "I completely forgot-"

"It's okay," Patrick said evenly. "I got it."

Pete made a small appreciative sound and wandered back into the living-room, and Patrick shook his head as strains of merengue floated in the air. He hated the stuff, but Pete loved it, so he had to live with it.

He finished quickly and got up, finding Pete sprawled off in the sofa and wriggling lightly to the music.

"Ready to go to the supermarket?" Patrick said, and Pete shook his head, opening his arms wide. Patrick laughed and put the notepad on the center table before crawling on top of Pete, settling neatly into him, line to line, curve to curve. Pete started to sing with the music, stroking Patrick's back with one hand while twirling a strand of light hair around the fingers of the other.

"... _Besame suavecito, sin prisa y con calma...dame un beso bien profundo, que me llegue al alma..._."

Patrick laughed outright as Pete gyrated against him, leering until Patrick felt breathless and had to kiss him. Pete stopped dancing immediately and arched up into Patrick, a moan rumbling in the slim tan throat as Patrick slipped his hands nimbly up Pete's shirt and stroked any and every inch of skin he could find.

"Ok, _no_ ," Pete managed as Patrick nibbled delicately at his ear. "No supermarket for now, please?"

"Hmm?" Patrick rocked back on his heels and yanked off his own shirt, and they tumbled to the floor trying to pull off pants and undershirts and all other in-the-way stuff, until it was just skin and sweat and low needy cries and Pete chuckling in Patrick's ear, gasping "Hey. I'm Pete. Such a _pleasure_ to meet you," and Patrick didn't know whether to laugh or come, so he did both at the same time.

 _fin_


End file.
